Day Twenty Nine: Faceless

Laptop on train. Image by Pennington


We pass each other en route to nowhere
waiting on the platform for nothing at all.
We travel past so many in our lives,
Feigning interest should an acquaintance fall.

So many faceless bodies brush up against the wind,
Like the motion of a train as it speeds along the line.
And akin to the whirling noise of its great machinations, voices are lost in the din.
For like all the other things we acquire in life, their aging features fade into the distance.

All of the faces merge together; voices are heard as one great cry.
We collect them like digital luggage,
But when we lose interest, we are frightened to toss them into the digital sea.
Instead we just take on ever more passengers, and decide to stand when we’d rather sit.

Except, the vainest measure the journey in popularity, not miles,
because the amount of passengers that they can carry has no limit.
Unaware that in the real world, real people with real feelings are so very hard to come by,
and like the man who runs the lost and found back at the station
they keep few so close to their heart.

With obdurate pride, we refuse to let others disembark,
Only to be affronted when they do first,
They take their bags, grab their jacket and question the “friendship” they demerit.

Still we click away.
Stopping in the terminus to speak to others that we haven’t seen in years, yet we commit,
we commit on command to “connect!” with those whom we always clashed styles,
Waiting, once again, to see just what we can see.
Perhaps to see if they lumber on this virtual train with more baggage than us.

Can we feel superior at all their excess baggage?
Will we let out a cry of joy as we realise that their life, which was once an empty seat, is now a full carriage? That their life is a dead end job – arid and dry?!

No. Instead we make small talk as they sit beside us on the train;
A few words here, the odd comment there, a smile at their new born children,
And a marriage to a person with whom they wouldn’t have shared a playground with just eight years before.

It’s just a revolving door:
Workmates from long ago, school friends from our old haunts, temporary friends we’ve met in a variety of places, from our old warren.
Yes, in the grand scheme it’s all just small talk in the rain.

Yet in their millions people come, people flock; leaving their engine running without a worry,
because deep down we know that it’s all in vain, that the train of life is always in a hurry.


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